The Tower and the Hovel
by Jedi Amoira
Summary: Alistair and Elan light the signal beacon only to find disaster ensues. Alistair tries to cope with this turn of events while Elan lies unconscious. Spoilers. Fic 3 chapters COMPLETE.
1. The Dark Tower

Disclaimer-- As much as I wish otherwise, I do not own DAO. I do not own any of the characters there-in, including the female Cousland origin character, though I would like to think my interpretation of her is my own. I do not own the environment, events, dialogue, etc. I expect and will receive nothing from this story but the joy of paying homage to excellence. (Imitation, after all, is sincere flattery.) Nonetheless, I do work hard on my little stories, and I love them. Please don't repost or reprint them without my knowledge. Further, like all fanfic writers, I am fueled by reviews. If you like and want more, please encourage me by telling me so. If you see something you dislike or think needs to be fixed, I will be happy to learn...but please be gentle!

Note-- This 3-chapter fic is a fragment of what or may not eventually become a longer, more comprehensive fic. If I waited until that fic was in a condition to post, I would never post at all, and I wanted to post. Titles for this fic are vaguely based on Scene IV of Shakespeare's _King Lear_.

* * *

Even as the kindling began to blaze, Elan and Alistair were moving to the nearest vantage.

The night was dark in spite of the various flaming projectiles in the process of being exchanged, and the bottom of the valley was so distant...it seemed little more than a dark, roiling mass...a sea of death and sin. Elan shuddered slightly.

Woofus bumped against her leg, offering comfort.

Elan squinted, trying to make out the flicker of movement that would confirm Loghain's troops had seen the beacon. "I can't really see what's happening," she said fretfully.

Woofus gave a soft, plaintive whine.

"Okay," Elan said grimly "Now I'm _convinced_ something's gone wrong—Woofus can't see the reinforcements coming either."

"They have to be coming," Alistair said, though he didn't sound convinced. "Loghain is—well, he's _Loghain_, Elan. He knows what he's doing."

They waited for what seemed like an eternity.

"Alistair...." Elan said anxiously. "Where are they? They're not coming..."

"Oh, Maker..." Alistair breathed, "not another one."

In spite of the poor visibility, the looming shape of the ogre was nearly impossible to miss. Elan could see—or imagined she could—the vibrations running through dark mass far below as it lumbered closer. It stooped and straightened, more quickly than it seemed something so large ought to be able to manage, a sudden, bright flash in its hand. Then, slowly, the brightness resolved itself into the shape of a man.

"Alistair," Elan pleaded heavily, "please tell me that isn't—"

Alistair swore, darkly and inventively. Woofus yipped agreement.

Even as they watched, the ogre flung the bright object away. It arched and sparkled across the valley like a shooting star .

"There," Alistair said, sounding tense, "that white flash...is that Duncan?"

"Is he..._climbing _that Ogre?" Elan's question was his answer.

"Duncan..." Alistair moaned in a sort of plea.

The faint chink of Alistair's armor had Elan moving after him, but a bolt of pain shot through her shoulder, making her falter.

Alistair's dark eyes widened in alarm. He swung his heavy wooden shield to intercept several more arrows even as Elan jerked to the side, dodging one and more-or-less-accidentally deflecting another with her blade.

Several darkspawn rushed toward them, shouting.

Alistair raised his sword and shield, tensing as if he meant to leap in front of her.

Something slammed into her ribs, knocking her off her feet. She wasn't sure if the several smaller thuds were just aftershocks, or actual hits. Her head slammed into the floor, making her see stars. She struggled to regain her feet, but her limbs felt so....heavy and limp.

She wanted to shout at Alistair and Woofus, tell them to get free while they had time...tell them Duncan and the king were far more important than a girl already living on borrowed time—but her lips didn't seem to want to move. She could feel her breath ebbing, carrying her awareness with it...there was nothing she could now. She had already done all she could...and it wasn't enough. It wasn't nearly enough. _Father, forgive me..._

Duncan's instructions to protect the raw recruits had been meant to apply to their time in the Wilds, and no further, Alistair knew. He had managed that much...but, somehow, he felt the recruit at his feet was still under his protection. Why else had Duncan sent her with him to complete a task that no one had expected to require the presence of a single Grey Warden, let alone two of them?

And now he didn't even know if she was alive...he couldn't spare time or movement to check..._One task, Alistair_, he berated himself, _Duncan and the king give you one stupid, little, trivial task. A task so small you feel slighted And, in the end, you go and fail. You're failing the King. You're failing her. And you're failing Duncan. Twice over. _

Alistair hacked indiscriminately at the crowd of darkspawn. The dog circled the girl on the floor, growling and snapping at anything that ventured too close.

Even if he and the dog managed to drive back this unending horde, even if his charge could be revived...how would he ever accomplish those things in time to aid Duncan and the king? But the very thought of leaving Elan behind—however temporarily—made his stomach writhe with guilt, and wasn't it already too late, anyway? It had been too late by the time they caught sight of their leaders on the field, too late from the instant they realized Loghain hadn't come...But what, oh what, if it wasn't?

The question was nonsensical. Alistair wasn't going to be able to hold out indefinitely, and the surge of darkspawn into the Tower showed no signs of ending. Already he could feel himself tiring, though whether exertion or desperation weighed more heavily upon him would have been hard to determine. _Maker, please, I'll count my death a victory, my life well-lived, if only you'll let me save them—_

He fell back, yelping in pain as his leg snapped. The dog's snaps and growls seemed to have changed, expanding into a huge, bellowing roar that surged through Alistair like the taint in his blood, making his vision flicker.

Or maybe that was just the darkspawn swarming over him, their swords and their daggers, their jagged teeth and their ragged nails tearing at his flesh...

Then the dragon loomed over them and into his vision and he knew he and Elan and the dog were lost, knew it too conclusively for fear or even for regret.

The dragon cracked its tail like a whip, knocking darkspawn in every direction. Alistair felt a huge, clawed talon close firmly around him, lifting him off the floor...Suddenly, he was soaring through darkness, speeding toward toward death...


	2. This Cold Night

Disclaimer-- Morrigan and Alistair's dialogue is modeling from some dialogue lines in the game, but I have tried to keep that to a minimum.

Notes--I seriously considered entitling this fic "Stranded Somewhere with No Pants" because of this chapter. In case you wanted to know.

* * *

Light returned as a warmth against his face, a flicker against his eyelids. He realized he didn't feel weightless any more, but was instead pressed quite solidly into something slightly soft overlying something quite firm....a pile of skins on a hard-packed dirt floor. "Somehow," he said, "death isn't quite what I imagined."

"And on what basis do you make such a ridiculous proclamation?" a voice asked, hovering between scornful and amused.

Alistair frowned. It was damned familiar somehow, that voice and that tone...

"Come now," the voice continued crisply, "surely you aren't disappointed to be among the living?"

"Disappointed?" Alistair repeated, remembering the flare of golden armor arching over a battlefield, the white flash of Duncan's mad rush, the red puddle of Elan's blood seeping around him...the dark shadow of the dragon. "It's not like I could have survived the darkspawn, let alone the arch—" he said, arguing with the voice, pointing out that it _must _be mistaken. He wasn't among the living.

"Yes, well, I suppose you have a point," the voice said grudgingly. "You wouldn't have survived if mother hadn't swooped in when she did."

"Swooping is bad," Alistair muttered thickly. His frown deepened. The words, too, seemed familiar. "Uh, wait. What?"

"The darkspawn," the voice said impatiently. "They overran your position. You very nearly died, but mother decided to intervene for some reason—goodness only knows why—you certainly don't seem worth the trouble to me. I would have rescued your king—he'd have been worth more in ransom."

"What do you mean you _would have _rescued the king?" Alistair gasped, lurching upward, making the world spin about him.

He found himself staring into eyes like gold seen through smoke, eyes set in a delicate oval face framed with a dark, silky fringe of hair. "Hey! You're the one that had our treaties! You're that sneaky witch-thief."

"_I_ had nothing," the girl snapped. "_I _took nothing. 'twas my mother. Or did the darkspawn steal what few wits you had to call your own? Witless or not, one would think you'd have manners enough to thank those who tend to your wounds!"

Alistair glanced down and realized with a shock that he was wearing nothing more than his small clothes. His leg had been splinted between two stout branches of wood, and for what he was feeling, he would never have known there was anything wrong with it. A nasty gash along one of his ribs was covered with a compress, and so was a rather large lump on one of his temples.

He blushed from the tips of his ears to the tips of his toes, and hastily yanked the furs tucked around his waist up to his neck. "Yes, fine, okay. Thanks."

"Oh, you really needn't bother." the witch-thief snapped, tossing his tunic into his lap.

A series of puckers and welts marked a trail of inexpertly mended rips and tears across it—lingering traces of contact with darkspawn weapons and his own chainmail. The tunic had been washed, but the back and most of one side bore a rusty discoloration that made Alistair's heart twist.

"If you didn't want me to thank you, then why did you bother complaining about it? Or were you just trying to distract me from my questions about the king?" Alistair pulled the tunic over his head, wishing the witch-thief would return his pants while she was at it.

But he wouldn't be able to get them on without help even if she did—not with his leg in a splint—and he'd rather not have help, especially if she was the one he'd have to ask to get it. Even if he did ask, his pants weren't likely to fit over the splint. He could cut the pant leg off so it ended where the splint began, but he knew he'd regret that when the splint came off. He sighed gustily and tucked the furs back around his waist—more tightly than necessary.

The witch smirked at him, but her voice was short with frustration. "Your king and his men were massacred. Mother said there was nothing she could do. The man who was supposed to respond to your signal quit the field. "

"The king was _what_!" Alistair gasped again, feeling as if he'd been hit in the chest with a particularly nasty mace...which, come to think of it, he had been....several times.

"Killed." The girl said slowly and distinctly, as if she thought him too stupid to comprehend. "The king was killed. As was most of his army."

"Dead," he whispered. The word seemed to echo loudly in the tiny room. "The king is dead. What about...what about...did you—" He broke off at her scowl. " Okay, okay, did _your mother _see a tall, dark man...in a silver breastplate? And white robes...or robes that used to be white, anyway?"

The girl shrugged. "You best ask mother about that. But I suspect he does not yet live...especially if he was on the field near the king."

_Failed. I couldn't even manage to die with Duncan—the only friend I'll ever have. I couldn't even manage to die for my king. I failed them. I failed him._

Alistair didn't know how long he sat in silence before the idea slowly dawned on him. "If the battle was lost...if the darkspawn won...then...they haven't been defeated?"

"That is the general meaning of the word 'won' is it not?" the girl reminded him, thrusting a cup into his hands. "Drink that. Mother says it's to help accelerate the healing."

Alistair downed the contents of the cup. It tasted very much like a sort of warm, flowery tea. It seemed completely and utterly at odds with the conversation. What he needed was some whiskey. The strongest whiskey ever made. "Then the Blight...must still be coming. The...the other Grey Wardens?"

"The Grey Warden Recruit who was here with you before" the witch-thief replied, clarifying, "the one capable of holding a coherent conversation? She is...not well, in truth. But she is here. And she yet lives..." The witch-thief sighed. "Must I really reiterate that the other Wardens do not?"


	3. Go in with Me

"All dead?" Alistair repeated hollowly, staring into the empty cup. "All of them dead? _All _of the Grey Wardens in Ferelden are dead?"

The girl snatched the cup away. "All except the one who accompanied you to the Tower, yes."

"Elan," Alistair said. "Elan."

The witch-thief shot him an odd look. "You mean the girl?"

"She...was...just one of the boys," Alistair said, and his eyes began to burn. "She...was down before I could...I thought she... She's really alive?"

"Did I not say so? She is gravely injured, but—"

"Where is she?"

The witch-thief rolled her eyes. "Behind you. Don't expect much in the way of conversation." She stalked out of the room. Out of the...hut...really...as it seemed to be only the one room.

Alistair inched along the floor until he could see a smooth cheek—though it seemed far paler than he thought it should be—framed by loose strands of hair visible only where they sparked copper in the lowlight, and a small, square hand.

He reached and stroked a finger along the length of the hand, testing to see if it was real. It felt real...

He woke up again sometime later.

He'd been sleeping, her hand clutched in his, pressed to his heart. He blushed to the tips of his ears, grateful the only witness to his odd behavior was unconscious...but, then, why wasn't she conscious?

"Elan?"

The form on the floor remained quiet and still. Too still. Too quiet.

"Elan, listen...I know...it's my fault you're hurt...but...just...please forgive me...I need you to wake up...I need you to get well...everyone else is dead..._everyone_...and the darkspawn are out there...and I've only been a Grey Warden for _six months_. I know, I know, that's six months more than you, but, really, I might as well have joined yesterday..." he made a sound between a cough and a chuckle. It sounded disturbingly like a dying man's gasp. "_And I don't know what to do._ Even if I did, I just...I really don't want to do it alone...if I even could...which I doubt...please...please...don't make me do this alone."

Alistair sat in the room for what seemed like hours. Holding Elan's hand. Willing her to be all right. Drifting off into sleep. Occasionally the witch-thief would appear and brew more of the strange tea. He drank it without complaint. If she or her mother poisoned him now, it would be a waste of the time and effort they'd spent to save him, and it didn't matter much to him if they did.

Just how much time had passed was hard to gauge in the unchanging, murky light that seemed to fill the hut, but Alistair guessed it was two or three days before the witch-thief removed the splint from his leg and got around to returning his pants. He knew he ought to ask how long he'd been unconscious, how much time had passed since...but speaking the words aloud would have made the battle seem so much more...over. Final. _Like the end._ The very thought made him shudder. It made him want to weep.

The witches must have sensed his mood, though he would never have expected them to understand it. Whatever their reasons, they left him mostly to himself—well, to himself and his fellow Grey Warden, anyhow—returning to the hut only to prepare meals and tea, or to sleep, and, once in a while—far less often than he thought necessary, and far more often than he was happy to see—to hover over Elan: lifting the blankets and furs, consulting in whispers, exchanging bandages, and muttering as if casting spells he could only hope were doing more good than not.

Sometime around the time he finally regained his pants, he thought the color was beginning to seep back into Elan's face...but he couldn't be sure, and she didn't wake.

A day or two after that, she began to mutter in her sleep. Alistair was torn between relief and frantic worry—especially when he heard his name. It seemed good she might slowly be returning to the land of the living...but what if she was merely slipping further into delirium?

He peppered the witch-thief with so many questions he thought she might strangle him with the bandage she'd just removed from a part of Elan's anatomy he tried not to imagine, lest it make him blush...or lest Elan wake, see his thoughts in his face, and do her best to make him regret them...though, on the whole, he almost wished she would.

When the witch-thief folded the bandage and set it aside, he was surprised, and a part of him that longed to suffer for his failures—or to make others suffer for them in kind—was more than a little disappointed, although she did so with pointed deliberation. "Mother says you should take a short walk to be sure all is well with your leg," she said.

"Later." He said a bit shortly, trying to angle his body to get a better view of Elan's face. He wished he could tell if she was even breathing.

"Mother doesn't really take kindly to people who don't follow instructions," the witch-thief said with exaggerated patience. "Just a short walk. I'll stay with your friend."

The last thing he wanted was to walk away from his fellow Grey Warden...but if the witch-thief's mother had really rescued them from that tower, she had to be formidable...and the last thing he needed or wanted was to make her mad. Alistair reluctantly began pulling on his armor, grateful to see it had been cleaned, if inexpertly. "If there's any change...if she..."

"Oh, just go!"

Alistair stumbled out the door.


End file.
